And I think to myself

What I want most really is friends
Because they last longer
The connection not so unstable
Rooted in a commitment to live ones life side by side
Interweaving in and out
A resonance of characters
A culture of care, interest, intrigue
To come back together and then part again
A wave
A dance
That allows that space to grow
That doesn’t break under its own impermanence
It takes and gives, time

[old, found in small all caps on the back of a piece of paper]

if it was so fragile
it could break
that easily
was it worth 
preserving
you + me?

a spider's web
makes a beautiful seam
but
relies on the light
to ever be seen

pictures
of you
served up
to me
on a 
platter
daintily

it's all
in my
head
this I
can
see

so 
why
do I
feel
so
extreme

               (ly
uncomfortable
when she
pulls my chain

melting when
you say my name
will anything
ever change?
it has to - 
nothing 
stays
the
same)

everywhere every second people's hearts are breaking

can you hear them? It's the crunch of stepping on tiny white beach shells

lives being fractured like pieces of glass, sudden shards from a pane that moments ago

you could see through

sense breaks down like that. reality so clearly a mirage there comes a moment

when we all just hit a wall. not metaphorically - face first

bloody nose glasses broken into two.

and then we try to do everything we can, we put on our coats

bundle up and rush over to those on the periphery of the shock

alone in their apartments even if (what was the word Joris used?) calm about things

things like suicide, at this age, Joris says, and you don't know if he means that twenty-four is young

or twenty-four is old. maybe both.

it's the biggest kind of exhale

like all the breath in your stomach, in your body, that has ever passed through your lungs

pushed out and piling up into a cavern of the earth

the breath is creating an ocean

with waves like my hand in the bathtub rocking

just because I do not hold this hurt always

just because it was the kindest thing to leave

doesn't mean I don't hold such a sadness for the ending.

permission slips

"Where in the world would you have learned that sacrificing yourself again and again in order to make others comfortable is maybe not selfless and noble, but actually a slow kind of self-murder?"

you may leave

I give you permission to save your own life

to say no

to say stop here. enough. I am out.

I do not want to engage with your toxicity.

I can choose to be in control of my one precious life.

to notice that those who sacrifice themselves over and over

in search of praise reward recognition

why are they always women?

a realization I am too slow to come to, to face the full pain of it

given the kool aid in my cup

If I work hard enough he will love me if I bear enough 

I will be a good person if I just do a little more I will be appreciated

enough. enough. Enough.

I give you permission to save your own life

Do you hear me?

To save yourself. Radically and simply. To get up and leave the room you want to. leave.

Even though someone might notice. 

To buy the cup of coffee. To take the moment.

To say goodbye to the boy you loved who couldn't help put prick tiny swords into your skin in a desperate attempt to save his own life. Something you could never do and were never responsible for, me,

I forgive you.

There is nothing wrong with

saving yourself.

I give you permission to

"and there was a new voice
which you slowly recognized as your own...
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save."

–––

(1) Elizabeth Gilbert, "Letters to Love" (11/17/24)

(2) Mary Oliver, "The Journey"

today the weather is wild

it almost depends which window you look out of

the kitchen one shows me rain and grey,

but from my room I see the blue sky, clouds,

sun peeking through. at one point 

looking up from my screen I notice in the slight distortion

of the building across the street's windows that

it is raining, raining and sunny, raining and sunny at the same time.

it all seems such a clear metaphor, the confusion of my mind,

life, the world, a matter of which window, panes we open and close,

everything a process of opening and closing, letting be,

a matter of perspective.

 last night he says

I will be in her life - as long as she wants me to be

I will always be there for her

and something inside you breaks a little

shatters, the shard lodged there

just there

I'm sorry, you say, that's just a bit triggering for me to hear.

Then opening your computer to find the photo of him waiting

the little note, with the heart on it,

slipped in by josé, and you say:

oh.

What is it? Michelangelo asks, and you say, José brought me my things.

Show me, show me. Show me, me.

From the altar

Show me, show me.

He takes it gently, looks at the skyline. The art deco skyscrapers,

Central Park so iconic. You tell him about the matching photo, 

the pair. It is clear in your mind, your memory.

These images, these photos you search for in the digital world, 

in boxes, everywhere, everywhere, even if you cannot find them,

they are there, perhaps in the safest place, your mind.

Writing a letter to love this morning, about what is precious,

your own song comes on, a meditation on the same medium,

sacred plums, bruises and joy, mixed together, 

into something we could never hold.

(Georgia to Texas)

 I always love the last song on the album
The one that doesn't quite fit
Pushes you out onto the sea
Into the endlessness

 I cannot control (and yet I want to, so badly).

If you'd like to be a bitch, please go ahead and be my guest.

Can I not rise to the challenge?

To the bait you set me. Turn around and try to be my friend.

You are like a strangler vine. You climb over everything. 

I do not want to grace you with my time.

And yet hating you is another mode of letting you win.

Giving you my frustration.

to hear from you

soothes me. tendrils of insecurity

that wrap their way around my arms receding

with the reassurance of the memory of your touch.

biking to school today, a song comes in from the other night,

and I blush involuntarily, a shiver of pleasure inside at the 

last time I heard this song, context: in your room, in your bed,

mind numb, dopey, skin on skin, skin on skin. this is the antidote

to the fire the other arises in me, suddenly everything burning

I can never be enough, can't know what's on his mind as he walks home

if I even am, if anything of this is, even the smallest hint of jealousy

obliterating my mind overrun with ants and anger, swarming with scorpions,

ready always to yell: revenge! traitor! cheat! and you - you are good - and you

are pure - and you are mine all mine and only known about by those who I let

not those who take these good basic things and split them in two like crackers

to dip in their coffee. even if I cannot expel these middle school girls from my life

(like cockroaches they refuse to die) I will not invite them to dine on my secrets.

I will find a way to wave to them across the water. Let others chat with them, that is not

my affair - after all I am not a puppeteer. Let my own friendships be enough, let me trust in them

and if and when the hurt comes, I will break like a damn in my sorrow, 

I will flood the city and wash it clean and I will leave no one, rejoice in no one,

but myself (and maybe, you).

little bits

Last night, jumping around,

my hair flying, feeling like I

was a figment, a filament, free,

Rozi under the blue lights across 

from me, dancing.

---

I have so many things to say to you

that I am never going to

some things are like that

tough and go

words aren't everything you know

visions are like memories

like images in the puddles of the street

pass me by like light shadows on the ceiling

rhythmically

---

The streets of copenhagen 

in the dark of the morning

talking games like kids

to let it be simple and deeply flawed

to not obsess over this

(But I am an artist.)

---

And the light comes to touch the buildings 

lightly with the back of its hand

lingering like the scent of 

someone who has left,

but you wish had not.